Motion is Motion

This is me turning 50 last August. Notice how I’m not disintegrating.

            My right knee gives me a hard time. It’s not a constant battle, but when it gets aggravated, it lets its voice be heard. Case in point, the other morning while working out, I had to go lower on my dumb bell weight for step-ups because said knee was pitching a fit.

I hate having to modify workouts because I have a bad habit of all or nothing thinking. My thought process goes something like this, “If I have to use a lighter dumbbell on this move, I’m going to start disintegrating like the character Walter Donovan in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade when he drinks from the wrong cup, and I won’t be able to work out or do anything because I’ll be a pile of dust by the rowing machines.” A bit eccentric, I know.

Anyway, when I told my trainer that I couldn’t go heavy on the move, he simply said, “motion is motion.” This coming from the same sage trainer who introduced me to the term, “smart rest.” (A gem that I treasure and use frequently in all sorts of situations.) Immediately, I felt better and realized that I would not suffer the same fate (or anywhere near it) as Mr. Donovan.

After class, the idea of “motion is motion” stayed with me. I’m stubborn and a tad vain, so aging isn’t the best activity for me, yet it is one in which I am fortunate to participate — I’m not that vain. Talking with friends who’ve hit the 50 mark, as I did ten months ago, it’s clear that our bodies are changing. It’s not an overnight thing, but gradually we’re noticing we’re not able to do things exactly the same ways we once did.

For instance, when I ride the Woodstock Express in Camp Snoopy at Carowinds, I have to sit a certain way so I don’t jerk my back on the first hill. Road trips now include stops simply for stretching, and the first ten minutes of my runs aren’t as pleasant as they used to be. However, despite all that, I’m moving, refusing to stop, and that’s the mantra I’m applying to everything.

It’s no secret that women are often cast aside when they reach a certain age, especially in media, with the exception of Martha Stewart. (Go Martha!) But whether we like it or not, the world often assigns women an expiration date regarding when we can be and do certain things, and as someone who’s not nearly finished doing things, I give that a “whatever” from teenage me — complete with an eye roll.

When I turned 50, everyone asked me how I felt, as most birthdays don’t offer the perceived seismic shift that a half-century does. I was honest when I answered that I was a little freaked out, but more liberated than freaked out. Freaked because 50 years is 50 years. If a company stays in business that long, it’s a big deal, so it only makes sense that living for 50 years is too. Liberated because it is what it is, and this is who I am. I’m a 50-year-old woman who’s so very tired of worrying about who she’s supposed to be.

I was 14 when my mother turned 50, and I don’t remember her as an old person at all. She was still doing all the things, and she looked beautiful while doing them. Back then, 50 wasn’t as young as it is now, but for my mother it was.

She’d always say that having me at an older age kept her young. Older parents are more common now, but back then, she was a unicorn. That said, I remember her being more fun than the other moms, especially the younger ones who were always stressed out. She loved throwing parties and traveling. She was the one you wanted to carpool with on field trips because she’d let you listen to whichever music you wanted and most likely offer you a Breath Saver. She was the adult who would swim in the lake with my friends and I while the other grown-ups stood on the porch. Mom didn’t let anyone stop her.

When I went away to college, she started taking college classes, a dream of hers that couldn’t be fulfilled when she graduated high school. People (including my dad) would ask why she was doing it, and she’d simply say because she wanted to. She wore out at least three stationary bicycles, walked on the beach every chance she got and even tried to learn how to play the dulcimer. That didn’t turn out so great, but motion is motion. Instead of whimpering about growing older, joking about hot flashes or surrendering to dowdy fashion, she tried new things. She lived her life.

Now it’s my turn. Yes, my knees sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies some days, but so what. I’ve got 50 years of joy, sadness, heartbreak and hilarity in this body, and there’s room for plenty more. Bring it on!